Illuminating
by conchepcion
Summary: Collection of drabbles and one-shots previously posted on Tumblr.
1. Meditation

**A/N**: I'm going to post some of the things I've posted on tumblr here, and future ones as well.

Prompt by Ceaselesslyinlove: _A drunk Sherlock kisses Molly. Embarrassment ensues in the morning._

* * *

A wreath over the fireplace was fine. After all, it belonged to Mrs Hudson, and had been yearly brought up by John during the celebrations at Baker Street. However, with Mary mixed into the celebration there was mistletoe hanging above the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room.

This too was fine -_ if_ one were to overlook the other artefacts of a less quality brand occupying the space, which Mary had brought in to his protest and John's amusement.

Neither of the pair lived there, yet they still disturbed his peace, as Mary had tidied up the kitchen, before using his space to start cooking what smelt – despite his better judgement – excellent.

He was not particularly fond of Christmas, as his own childhood memories of it were not exactly ones worthy of remembering. Sherlock did not reflect too long on the intrusion done by the married couple, occupying himself with his violin, as Mary had requested some music.

He would rather she did not play anything from her iPod. He did not exactly trust her taste, as the glaring Santa Claus she'd brought in, had finally been subdued when he pulled the plug from the ghastly thing (even John looked grateful).

Playing for what had been approximately two hours, listening to the lowered voices of Mary and John in the kitchen, the pair of them debating something furiously had been annoying, but he knew there was a topic that both wanted to bring up.

John finally cornered him, a drink in his hand, "Sherlock?" he said, clearing his throat, obviously trying to postpone his speech.

He paused the bow at the strings, letting the violin soon hang at his side, "John?" There was apparent hesitation in his friends face; clearly he was under pressure from his wife.

"Just – err – could you play nice – tonight?"

With furrowed brows he stared at John, his blue eyes dropping to the instrument before him, "I've never had a complaint before."

John snorted, "Not the violin – I mean – just – could you not be an -,"

"Arse?" piped Mary loudly from the kitchen, as she put her roast in the oven.

He stared at John, then Mary, before scoffing, "I think those who are coming are more than familiar with my behaviour."

"Well – we've had two quite normal Christmases – and I'd just like you to tone it down a bit-,"

"Don't act like an arse towards Molly," said Mary who came strolling out of the kitchen with a glass of red in her hand.

"Fine," he said briefly, his hand hovering over the strings of the violin again.

Mary seemed pleased by this, occupying one of the chairs, while John still hovered before him, "What?" he said, trying not to sound aggravated, though by the annoyed expression on John's face it had the opposite effect.

"Try to be normal, will you? She helped you, after all."

"I will be on my best behaviour," said Sherlock with a quick smile, that he dropped, and which did not make John look a bit more pleased.

"John, will you relax? It'll be fine – Molly knows what she signed up for after all. You don't need to protect her," said Mary with a sigh, "We just want you to not – make any observations about her…breasts…that's all."

Sherlock put the violin aside, "Well – I-," he had started, only to be interrupted by Mary's blurt of, "I didn't know you noticed that sort of thing, it's a bit odd…" She proceeded to look down at her own blouse, "Have you-,"

"No," he said without looking.

"Right," said John rubbing at his eyes, "Just be normal, and we'll have a nice evening."

"I suppose your definition of normal would be to drink, then?" said Sherlock, seeing the small bit of hurt appear in John's eyes.

He knew Harry had failed her recent attempt of sobering, though he did not anticipate John to retaliate by storming into the kitchen fetching a large bottle of whiskey.

"Drink up, then," he said annoyed.

* * *

Stepping into 221b Baker Street threw her back to the last Christmas she'd spent there, and it hadn't been a particularly happy memory. Excluding the soft feel of Sherlock's lips on her cheek, not that it hadn't stopped her from being a complete mess when she'd gotten to her flat, which she supposed was why the day after had been particularly harrowing.

There on a slab had been a woman who he seemed more interested in dead, than her ever alive, "Getting our Christma-," she started, when she'd gotten helped out of her coat, only catching Sherlock sat in one of the chairs looking very – _grim._

"Oh…" she started, swiftly brought into conversation with Mary and John, both of whom were avoiding looking into Sherlock's general direction.

"Is he alright?" asked Lestrade out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on the consulting detective who seemed to be mesmerized by the fire.

"He's just had a bit too much to drink," said Mrs Hudson with a wave of her hand, "Sherlock – will you play something for us?"

Silence fell over the party, everyone's eyes turning towards him, as he briefly gave a nod of his head standing on shaky feet, "Yes – of course," he said sounding rather distracted.

"John – maybe we should-," said Mary with a grimace.

"He'll be fine," he said.

Molly's brown eyes turned towards Sherlock who's bow was hovering over the strings over his violin, his blue eyes fixed on them, "Shall I?" he said softly.

"Yeah."

"Cheers."

"Lovely."

"Ok…" she said softly, clutching the drink she'd gotten from Mary, standing awkwardly in the sitting room. She wasn't wearing a dress this year, no; it was only a simple festive jumper and a pair of dark trousers. Molly didn't quite see the point of dressing up; neither had she wanted to, despite her presents.

They'd started to get along a bit better recently, and she supposed it had to do with the fact that he'd been dead for two years. Though, she hadn't seen him like this before, for when he did start to play it was erratic, and it was no tune that was worthy of being joyful.

Instead it was dark, tugging at the strings of her heart, more than anything, but she seemed to be the only one moved. Everyone else was awkward in their seats, eyeing each other, as she stared raptly at the man's half-shut eyes.

He looked different, though she suspected the alcohol had taken its toll, for everyone else were staring at him warily, like he'd snap any second. She'd never really heard him play, missing out that year.

Sherlock seemed relaxed, the crease between his brows of concentration, as he continued – he seemed at ease with the instrument between his hands.

Nothing wrong would come of this; it was only music, and not words that would ruin her evening.

His eyes opened, staring first into nothing, until they rested on her face. She let her eyes drop for a second, returning them slowly upwards to see that they were still on her. Blinking foolishly in return, she tried to calm the slow build-up of red in her cheeks.

Molly had forgotten her drink, letting it stay idle in her hands, as she freely stared at him in return. She had tried for a long time not to appear silly before him, at least not infatuated, but tonight she couldn't help herself really.

The music stopped.

His hand was gripping at the violin tightly, his knuckles white, the expression on his face confused, his eyes avoiding theirs, as he said, "I apologise."

"Oh, don't stop!" said Mrs Hudson teary-eyed, but he strode off through the kitchen, soon walking off to his bedroom, the resounding slam of the door audible to them all.

"Shit," said John with a frown, "I'll go, then."

Molly was surprised when she suddenly heard, "No, I'll just-," it was her own words, "Go."

She felt stupid the second she went, ignoring everyone's amazed looks, as she sprang off to his bedroom.

Giving to knocking ever so hesitantly, she heard the muffled, "Go away, John."

"It's me – Molly."

The door opened at that, causing her to take a step backwards, as he looked down on her.

She opened her mouth, soon shutting it, before she finally managed to say, "Are you okay?"

He stepped away from the door, and walked into his bedroom with uncertain feet, "Apparently not."

Molly walked in slowly, trying not to eye his room all-too curiously, "Um, that was – lovely – you should play some more…"

"Meditation," he blurted out, his back to hers.

"Sorry?"

He turned around, staring at her, "I was meditating on a pair of fine brown eyes." The way he said it, certainly caught her off guard, for his expression was muddled – that particularly line was underlined in her old copy, of course – _Pride and Prejudice._

Sherlock did not go on, at first she wasn't entirely certain what to say, but she found her words in the end.

"Sherlock?" she said with a frown, "Are you making fun of me?"

He'd seen the book, of course he would, and she felt sillier than usual for being fond of it. Of course it would be a memorable evening, one of those evenings she'd find herself sobbing loudly in her bedroom, "No," he whispered, breaking her reverie, when he shut the door behind her.

She became aware of how unsettlingly close he was, of how he stared down at her, his blue eyes flickering over her face, "I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

Next thing she knew his mouth was on hers, clumsily at first, passionate the next, as his hands wrapped around her waist.

She did not know what to do with her hands.

To be fair she did not know what to do full stop.

He tasted darkly of whiskey, of faded cigarettes; as his mouth coaxed hers open. Her back was pressed into the door, the woodwork pushing at her, while his firm body held her in place.

She let her hands stay on his warm chest, trying not to think, though it wasn't very hard. A deep moan left his throat, his hands pressing into her more persistently, with more longing than she knew he ever owned.

Molly didn't know what to think, what to do, feeling like she was being swallowed up by his very existence.

It was close to drowning…

The burning touch of his fingers that were hurriedly tugging at her clothes, awakening the little voice in her head – "No."

She'd said it out loud, drawing herself away from his lips, and finding the same chaotic expression mirrored in his eyes, "I've – I've got to go."

Molly tore her coat on after that, leaving her gifts, leaving the puzzled stares of the others, as she ran out of Baker Street, with no intention of returning.

* * *

"Hello," she said.

There he was by the microscope, as usual. She had never expected him to be there really, as it was still the holidays, and London was always eerily quiet during those. Molly was only taking over someone's shift, because she couldn't stand the idea to be left alone with her thoughts. Obviously she would have to reflect over last night's incident after all.

"Molly," he said without looking up.

She pressed her lips together, quickly trying to get her results, so she wouldn't need to be in his presence any longer, "I'm sorry."

She stopped in her track, letting her eyes stay on him, "It's alright – you – you weren't you, after all."

She laughed, too long maybe, for he looked absolutely at a loss, and she wondered if he'd forgotten.

"Oh, God – you don't – you don't remember?" she let out without thought, her hand leaping off to her forehead in embarrassment, "Of course you wouldn't-,"

He was about to open his mouth, though she went on, "It's alright – we can forget about it, it meant nothing to you of course, and everyone said you were pissed, so – it's okay, so, I'll just-," she pointed towards her papers, soon plucking up her samples, as she started to walk off.

"I never drank."

She whirled around, "What?"

He was standing now.

"John only thought I had – it's amazing what you can do with any regular kitchen item if you have it at your disposal."

She was gaping, "But-,"

"I only had one…I do manage to keep my drink, after all…They were all so worried I'd embarrass you," he said walking towards her.

She fidgeted with her papers, staring at him, "Then-,"

"Mary asked me a rather good question – why would _I_ be aware of the size of any woman's breast?" His eyebrow was raised, so were hers, as she swiftly shut her mouth to appear less foolish, "Or her weight? Or the length of her hair-," his hand was toying with the end of her ponytail, a flush appearing in her cheeks, as his fingertips stroked the strands, "Or her favourite book? Or the way she takes her coffee?"

"You – you know everything about John."

He smiled briefly at that, "I know it, because I need to know it – I have never required any of my information about you."

"Oh – but you…kissed me."

He released her hair, his fingers idly brushing her shoulder, "I suppose a coffee would be good - first, then?"

She didn't know how long she looked at him, in disbelief, in longing. No, she didn't know, though her lips curved upwards as she said, "Black with three sugars," before she walked off, with him soon at her heels.


	2. Pure Imagination

**Pure Imagination **

In his mind he was always there, with his mouth ghosting on the skin between her breasts, teasing her rosy nipples with quick licks that would have her squirming underneath him.

He would have her pinned down, her wrists smarting slightly from the pressure, as he felt her pulse thumping loudly underneath his palms.

She would always attempt to disguise her pleasure, her small breathy moans would however escape in intervals, and joyously include poor attempts at uttering his name, "Sh- sh – er -," that would disintegrate when he'd use his mouth on her pulsing nub.

Her whispers would become cries – that echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the walls, as his fingers slid themselves into her body.

Nails would claw their way into his back, hands pulling at his hair, as she tried to seek some ground. He would find heaven between her thighs; the sweetest of flavours soaking his face, and causing his already engorged cock to twitch in want.

Even there he would imagine bedding her, having her pressed into the covers, from any angle he could have her, until he lost every ounce of him inside her. With thrust upon thrust, his cock would swell between her thighs, her warmth enveloping him, as she would scream his name in her release.

"Are you ok?" she said looking up from scribbling on her charts.

Sherlock cleared his throat, brows knitted, as he kept his eyes on the microscope. He'd been pretending the last hour that the samples were interesting, when he was in fact memorizing certain aspects of her flesh by sheer look alone.

Sherlock did not give the impression, but he had an imagination to fill the gaps between the unseen places. But he knew that those sacred areas where perhaps much more interesting, than his imagination accounted for. He could feel his cock strain at the innocent thought, though he barely had a harmless consideration anymore around his pathologist.

"Yes – yes – I'm fine, Molly -," he hurriedly said, when he realised he'd been quiet, and her brown eyes were fixed upon him.

"Why are you lying?"

It was astounding when she chose to be perceptive. Some days he would get away with these thoughts, but they'd been attacking his mind so often of late – he assumed there was no other way around it than confrontation.

He could see by the way her hands clenched around the clipboard she'd been wondering about it for a while, and it certainly did not make him feel easier by the fact that she moved closer to his side, "It's just, you seem a bit strained lately – is it the lack of cases?"

That had been his conclusion to begin with.

There had popped up an array of reasons as to why, _"He was having difficulties."_Lack of sleep, sustenance, boredom, supressed sexual desire, terrible parenting, and the list went on and on. At least those were the things he'd proclaimed to his 'therapist' Doctor Roen (a pointless session, really, but he'd gotten desperate); "Or perhaps, you are in love?" the man had told him.

"In love? In _love?_"

He'd scoffed, snorting loudly before he escaped the office, soon returning seconds later proclaiming, "No!"

"You don't need to convince me, Mr Holmes. It was only a suggestion."

It was a terrible suggestion, a frightful one at that, but his administrations with his pressing need later that night doubled at the idea, of not only having her body, but her too.

He hadn't understood why it had been _her._She hadn't altered in the slightest, still wearing her colourful clothing, as he was daily subjected to creative mismatched patterns. Molly Hooper wasn't doing anything, except continuing being herself.

He had tried figuring out a logical explanation; perhaps he felt he hadn't thanked her properly? He did thank her; with various gifts, but none of those did anything but increase his frustration.

The pleased look on her face - with flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and a tender smile had forced him to partake in a very cold shower the subsequent evening, worsened it all. Sherlock tried to recreate that expression every now and then, only to make him moan soundly into his pillow, as he always found release the subsequent night(s).

"Sherlock?" she said, her thin pink lips pressed together in concern, as his blue eyes flitted to her face. He had no idea how long he'd been gone, or how long he'd been staring, "Are you really alright?"

"_Well_ – look at the time -," he said without looking at his wrist-watch, a brief smile lingering on his lips, before he allowed it to shed, intending to run out of the lab.

"Wait!"

She looked at him, hands clenched at her sides, while her mouth was partially open. Molly looked downright confused, perhaps, so did he, for truth be told – he was.

He had to admit he was taken aback the second he found her hand skimming over the buttons of his dark purple shirt, "I'm fond of this shirt, you know," she said with a small smile, briefly looking up at him, as he felt his arms turned to lead at his sides.

She was giggling, a light laugh that sent a pleasant sensation through his stomach, despite nerves at finding her delicate hands at his shirtfront.

This was another fantastical situation, perhaps? He still found himself swallowing soundly, his mouth turning dry, as her hands slid smoothly down his chest, ending at the bulge of his trousers grasping him through the fabric.

He was gaping, eyes slightly narrowed, while her expression was playful, "I'm fond of this as well, it's been a bit difficult not to notice really." She was biting at her lip, while making him hiss soundly at the deliberate pressure her hand was having on his cock.

"Kiss me," she said, "It's not that tricky, just…kiss me."

The uncertainty in her suddenly appeared, and he felt his own increase by the sudden uprising in hers.

Imagination was one thing, but crossing the real threshold was certainly another. He didn't avoid challenges however - arms springing up to hold her tightly towards him, crushing their lips together, as her mouth opened to his willingly.

She tasted – like raspberry, sweetened coffee, and dark chocolate. It was a desperate kiss, with her dragging him down to her lips by the lapels of his shirt, and with him divulging her of her lab-coat.

Hurriedly, clothes were flung to the floor.

No, consideration to the thin doors, but it was late.

No one but the two of them left, like always, neither willing to leave, until the other admitted defeat.

He had her spread out on the counter, steering objects away with some pretence of caring, "Sherlock-," she moaned, as a beaker was heard crashing towards the floor.

"I'll pay-," he groaned, as he dragged her towards him by the hips, so he could easily thrust into her, her legs soon crossed behind his back with a vice-grip.

"Oh – _oh_– God-," she gasped out, her hair fanned out underneath her, and her breasts leaping at his increase of speed.

He could count the freckles on her body, the tiny scars, and moles, as he lost himself in her, wishing he could stay, but –

"Are you ok?" she said looking up from scribbling on her charts, the ring on her finger shining a light into his eyes.

"Yes," he said, and so he would continue, until his last breath.

So he vowed.


	3. The Last Dance

**A/N:** Using lines from trailers regarding series 3, and series-speculations. Possible spoilers (hah).

* * *

**The Last Dance**

He had not expected that.

He hadn't expected that punch, or the way John looked at him.

He hadn't understood, not really.

Why wasn't he ok?

_He_ was alive after all.

He didn't understand.

He explained every detail, the why, and the how, and everything, but John still walked away. Mary was the one who tried to apologise, the one who sent him a smile, as she walked off hand in hand with John.

* * *

His speech, "Just the two of us against the rest of the world," was apparently not the thing John wanted to hear the next day either.

John had pinched his nose at that, and shut his eyes, "Right, that's not what I came here for, but obviously you don't get that…"

It was then he understood, what Mycroft meant, "He's got on with his life."

But, this didn't only mean John.

No, everyone.

He understood the others, quite a lot in fact, those were easier, but _her. _

She knew he was alive.

She knew everything.

She'd helped.

She did matter, of course she did, and he fully expected her to wait for him, "Things…have changed," she said.

Her hands had been in the pockets of her coat, which she hadn't yet shrugged off, when she came to Baker Street, "Mary told me," she said, "Thought I might pop round, if you need-,"

"I don't-," he said all too harshly, his eyes zeroing in on her hands, "Why are-,"

She finally took off her coat, hanging it up, as she hugged herself – the ring glaringly obvious on her hand – "I'm engaged."

He was surprised by the sudden heavy weight in his stomach.

"His name is Tom-," she started, and all of it faded in the background.

He saw her smile, her little laugh, and the way she held herself around him. She was different, but she hadn't changed. She just didn't -

His phone went off at that, he didn't apologise, and neither did he make an excuse, as he grabbed for it, "Lestrade," he said pleasantly, eyeing her.

* * *

He brought her along.

He tried to impress her.

He always did that, that was normal, of course he would, but he saw Lestrade eyeing him, "Welcome to my world," he said confidently, and he could hear the detective inspector's snort.

She'd only laughed at that, seeming a bit startled, but comfortable nonetheless.

She was easy to be around, nothing really seemed problematic, and he'd always assumed he'd be the one – "I think, I have to go home now, it's gotten a bit late, and I think -," she said with a small smile.

"Of course."

She reminded him that he wasn't alone, that John wasn't his only friend, though somehow he'd never felt lonelier.

* * *

_Laugh and sing,_

_But while we're a part,_

_Don't give your heart to anyone,_

The music went loudly on the speakers, annoyingly so, and he was constantly sighing, as he wandered around.

He felt restless -

_Don't forget who's taking you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be_ - his eyes flitted constantly to the dance floor.

Mary and John were dancing tenderly, with John happily whispering into her ear, and Sherlock felt rather pleased for him, of course. They'd reconciled, and Mary was surprisingly 'nice', though he didn't understand entirely why she kept popping up to tell him, "You're a bit thick, aren't you? Just a bit."

_So darlin'_

_Save the last dance for me_

As weddings go it wasn't the dullest, the murder had certainly sparked things up. Of course John saw that as negative, but Sherlock suspected that the several glasses of champagne sorted that out. Yet, despite the distraction, and the fact that_she'd_ helped – he hadn't felt particularly good.

His eyes found her easily, inserted in one of the silly bridesmaid dresses that she bore with pride, and wore well. She looked foolish, but she didn't seem to care. He didn't know how to feel about that, about how little she was self-conscious, as he half-expected her to be watching him.

No, her eyes were on…_Tom._

Tom.

_Nice Tom._

_Everyone likes Tom._

He was an idiot, of course.

Complete idiot.

But he made her happy.

And… "Could you just go and ask her?" said Mary, who was surprisingly enough standing besides him.

"Sorry?"

"Molly," said Mary with a knowing smile.

He furrowed his brows, "What? To dance? Why?"

She sighed loudly at that, "John, could you-,"

John looked as bewildered as he was, "What?"

"Jesus," said Mary with a small voice, "Right, I'm just-,"

The woman walked off at that, and he stood at a loss, "What was that about?" said John with two champagne glasses in his hands, sipping out of one of the pair.

"No idea."

He found himself on the dance floor, his hands clenching slightly as he walked through, "May I-," he found himself saying, and Tom had just nodded politely, giving Molly a peck on the cheek.

She looked a bit shocked to begin with, though she soon grinned, "I didn't think you could dance," she said.

"Obviously, I've proven you wrong."

His hand was on her waist, and the other clasped in her warm small hand.

She laughed spiritedly at the twists and turns, and he found his mouth turning upwards at that.

He didn't know why he was there.

No, he didn't – "Are you happy?" The words came out, all filters turned off, and her happy expression died.

"What?"

"With Tom?" he said, clearing his throat slightly, as he avoided her bright brown eyes.

He kept his eyes everywhere else, but soon turned them back to her.

"Yeah…yeah…I am," she said.

"Good."

But it wasn't.

* * *

He'd lost it, his ability to deduce.

It was gone.

"No, you haven't!" John said rather disgruntled, while Mary put the kettle on ('I'll make some tea, I think'), "It's not something you can just lose, it's not a bloody super power."

"I've lost it, John," he spat in return.

He'd been wrong.

Wrong!

Him - wrong?

Anderson.

Anderson had been right.

_Anderson!_

He'd clearly lost his touch. The years had taken their hold, obviously, and he'd gotten beyond rusty.

"I think it's just a fluke, you know - it'll be all right," said Mary in an attempt to soothe, but he grimaced in return.

It didn't.

It got worse.

He neglected himself.

He didn't care.

His apathy for his appearance certainly set the others on edge, with Lestrade going, "Is he ok?" As if he wasn't even there, while Mrs Hudson cleared up things in the flat, despite fervently meaning she wasn't going to.

"I think he's going through a bit of a rough patch-," and then her voice went low, and Lestrade's eyes went wide.

"What are you talking about, Mrs Hudson?" he said rising up from his position on the sofa.

"Nothing, dear!" she called, soon waving the pair off.

* * *

"You could try, just have a look – we'll just take a trip – to – err – you know – Bart's."

He eyed Lestrade's nervous expression suspiciously, "Fine," he snapped, not even willing to put on the coat.

* * *

"Just go, it'll be alright-,"

"Ok, I will-,"

The laughter caused him displeasure, when he slammed the lab doors open, and spotted the pair of them. They broke apart that very instance, while his frown deepened. Molly looked at him, her brows knitted, and her expression startled, "Sherlock? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," he said with a roll of his eyes.

Lestrade cleared his throat, "Molly – Tom – Molly – I just – err - could you wheel out a Mrs Foster? We need to have a look."

"That's my cue, then," said Tom.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

Molly eyed him at that; though she gave Tom a long hug, before she silently led them to the morgue.

"There's-," she'd started gesturing to the deceased.

He'd seen all the details already, oddly enough; he didn't need her to say it. Somehow he'd felt better, but – worse…"When is the happy day, then?"

She stilled, while Lestrade coughed awkwardly, "Could we just-," he started in the background.

"I've already got everything I need. I don't need any-," he said annoyed, wondering why she wasn't answering him.

"Don't you?" she said.

She looked angry, emotion clearly in her eyes, but he didn't understand why, "Look at you."

"I think-," he started for the door.

"No, need to thank me, then," she said, and he felt his eyes slid shut.

He'd forgotten, of course he had, and he turned round to say something, but her back was to his. He shut his mouth, before he said anything else.

* * *

He'd shaved, showered, taken care of every single detail, before he found himself in the locker room.

Her back tensed, his face reflecting in the mirror inside the locker, which she banged shut, "What?" she said, but she didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Ok," she said, with a hollow laugh.

"No, Molly, I am. I really am."

"Yeah, well, it's a bit too late."

She whipped around at that, and he saw the tears, "It's been two years, two years, and you just came back like it was nothing. I didn't hear a single word from you. Not one, and you expect me to be exactly where I was?"

He opened his mouth, but she went on, "I couldn't wait – Sherlock – it was_two_ years-,"

"I know," he said softly.

She released a breath at that, her mouth pressed together, as he saw the visible tremble. Molly was holding herself back, a thing she never ever did before, and for once he couldn't continue hold back himself, "You do matter."

"Right…_right_."

"You do-,"

She'd started to move, and he didn't want her to.

He stopped her then.

He knew what possessed him that single second, knew what made his lips collide with hers, pressing her up against the hard metal surface, as he almost drew _life_from her mouth.

She mattered, after all, much more than words could convey, and so he told her the way he knew others did.

He stayed.


	4. Idiot

**Idiot**

"Wha- what was that for?"

Parted lips, laboured breathing, flushed cheeks, dilated pupils; all the physical responses he expected, but the emotional response to said action was unexpected, "I – I apologise," he said with furrowed brows, making his escape, as the damage was done.

Sherlock threw himself into a taxi; roughly opening the buttons of his shirt, for air seemed difficult to digest, as he felt the furious beatings of his heart. He ignored the flutter, the blood flow, and the shot of pain.

It was easy to ignore.

After all, he'd been doing it for years.

* * *

She is bent over the paperwork, brown eyes narrowed to read out the small font, her stance relaxed, until she snaps into an upright position at the creak of the door.

Gaping mouth, pink spots in cheek, "Oh," she said, "Hello."

"Molly – lovely to see you – have you gotten the test results for a Mr Maxwell?" he said – smile wide, and a general air of _nice._

"Um – actually-," she starts, and her eyes are anxious. He sees the faint flicker in the brown, the turn towards the exact spot where he –

"A child's life is on stake here – I do think that's more important than – a lunch date? After all it will most likely be a disappointing one anyway," he said, adding a swift "Thank you."

He doesn't wait for her to agree, he only views the crinkle between her brows, dismissing the small mumble from her lips, and let's her walk off to fetch the results, "What was that for?"

The coat is halfway off when he sees John with crossed arms, "Sorry?" He forgot he was there for a second, and he finds himself swallowing at the choice of words his flatmate uses.

"Christ – fine, right - just go on then," said John with a loud sigh.

"No, John – do tell – since obviously it takes precedence over this?"

Raised brows, and a pursed mouth – are soon followed by, "She's your friend."

"I'm well aware."

"Do you think you could try to be a bit nicer?"

"I am nice."

"No, you bloody well aren't."

"Fine."

"Ok, good."

She returns with the papers, hands them to him silently, "Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome-," she said drawing back. Regularly she'd hover, ask if she's needed, but her back is displaying itself instead.

"I apologise if I upset you," he said rather hurriedly, and she wheels around at that.

"I didn't mind – I mean I _don't_ mind," she said with wide eyes at her mistake, as John stands puzzled in the background, "And I wasn't…there is no date."

"Oh," he said, releasing breath he did not know he kept, directing his eyes to the papers, pretending he doesn't need a minute to recover – "Why are you wearing lipstick?" His mouth leaps before him, and he watches her faintly smile, making the shade on her lips even more glaringly obvious by the flash of teeth.

John snorts in the background, giving him a warning look, while Molly clutches her hands slightly, "I just – I felt like it," she said, "…I should go, then."

"Stay."

* * *

Her hair is parted to the side, there's still a shade of rose to her lips, but it is her own, "Finished then?" she said, rubbing at her eye, soon attempting to disguise her yawn.

"Yes, thank you," he said, "You should go home, Molly."

"Oh, I'm alright," and with that exclamation she yawns wider, soon dissolving into a bout of overtired giggles.

There's a sudden itching inside of him at the sound, he lets his eyes fly above her head, "If you want, I can help."

"I can manage," she said, "It's all right – I'm -," and then she stops talking, her mouth rounding up, as she stares at him, apparently at a loss.

He lets his eyes go to her lips briefly, forcing them on her eyes instead, "If you want?"

"Ok," she said in a much brighter voice.

He holds up the door to the lab, letting her pass, as she releases another yawn, her eyes skirting towards him distractedly.

* * *

It's an unknown sensation - the weight of her head on his chest, the softness of her cheek pressed against his shirt, as he feels her softly breathe at his side. His large hand is tangled into her smaller one, and he feels the tiny surge of pleasure drift inside him, untangling the contents, and dissolving the hurt, "Sherlock?" she said with a small voice.

He makes a throaty noise in assent, as he marvels over the softness of her hands, "You're an idiot," she said, and he feels the wide smile into his chest.

Sherlock laughs, neither is he able to stop.


	5. Sad

**BECAUSE WHAT'S THE POINT IN THEM BEING HAPPY NOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO BE SAD LATER**

The low chatter that went around the room increased the second she appeared, hand in hand with her _fiancé_. He had yet met the man, only seen the large rock on her finger, revealing in essence the value of the man's bank account. _Tom _had spared no expense, none whatsoever.

A fact often spoken by Mary good-naturedly, hinting towards John's failed proposal, that Sherlock surmised would be back in the questioning in a months time. But, it was by the way Molly clutched Tom's hand, her knuckles turning white, and her behaviour almost a warning to the surrounding people that made him wary. He saw it on Tom that very second, and it felt like he'd fallen further than from St Bart's, "Sherlock – say hello -," said John by his side with a furtive glance, but he only pressed his lips together in silence.

"Ok – what's wrong with him, then? Is he an evil henchman, or the master-mind behind the whole thing?" said his friend laughing; obviously assuming it was his dislike for social norms, of 'saying hello to each other'.

"He's dying."

* * *

"I can see you," the words burned on the inside of his cheek, duelling with his mouth, with his thoughts, and clinging to his mind every waking second he spent.

No one seemed to be able to speak of anything else, but the 'brave dying man' and his 'lovely fiancé' – a woman about to sacrifice everything, for one man, the woman who counted, his friend - Molly.

He would let the words fall in front of John, let them drop heavily, until his friend sighed, "Can't you just let her be happy?"

"How long will that be, exactly?"

Sherlock saw it – the smiles, the laughs, and the sadness that had set in her brown eyes. It pained him seeing it, for he knew no advice would set her on the right path, though he still spoke it.

Her replies would be silence, her eyes meeting his in aggravation, until she one day said, "I just…I love him, and I know you don't know how that's like, but I do…so please – stop, just _please_."

It was then the sadness carved out pieces of him, "Are you alright?" John asked him at the reception, obviously anxious.

"Yes, yes, of course," he said, jerking his head towards the dance floor, so his friend was distracted by his girlfriend, "Why wouldn't I be?"

He memorized every detail of her dress, of how the light fell upon her hair, of how deep her dimples became and how bright her eyes twinkled underneath the glowing lights.

This memory he carried with him, like a torch to remind him of what she had gained, however fleeting, and what he could only strive for in thought.

Sometimes he wished he were still dying, that any breath could be his last, and he was only inches away from the edge, but he knew that wasn't the reason, "You love her?" said a voice, stopping him up, as he was bound to leave.

He halted in his step, turning around to meet the slightly pale groom, who was covering up the pain he was under with quick smiles, "Sorry?" Sherlock said with raised brows.

"My wife?" said Tom, hands in his pockets, and giving him a wry grin, "It's hard not to, so I won't hate you for it."

He snorted loudly in return, gaining only a disbelieving look from the ill man, "Right, ok, so, you're not going to answer, then? Well, whenever it does come, just…be…good."

Tom had just looked at him, a hesitant smile at his lips, before he then promptly walked away.


	6. Tonight

**A/N: **Prompt by the-doctor-wtf: _Molly saves Sherlock's life in a non-Fall related adventure._

* * *

**Tonight**

"You want me to help you?"

"Problem?"

"Err – it's - I – actually," she cleared her throat loudly at that, wondering vaguely whether or not she'd heard wrong, though she said, "OK."

"Could be dangerous," he said, eyeing her curiously at that, and she caught his rather anxious expression.

He didn't have anyone else; she was his last option, though she knew that she was the only one he'd asked. After all she had been there when he'd gotten the case.

"It'll be all right - I'm with you – no – I mean-," she blurted out, her cheeks turning a bright shade of pink, "It's okay, I've read John's blog after all."

She gave to giggle brightly at that, catching his mouth tugging upwards, though he hurriedly threw open the doors of the lab.

She shouldn't have mentioned John, though she really did believe they'd have it sorted out in the end, but she didn't exactly feel compelled to mention it.

After all Sherlock was smarting quite the whopper of a bruise on his face, which wasn't exactly surprising - it had the night John was going to propose to Mary after all, and timing was certainly not Sherlock's best quality.

Molly could only imagine John's face of horror when Sherlock dropped into the vacant seat, while Mary was at the loo. It did ruin the surprise, especially when Sherlock had gone on a long escalated rant about the stupidity of marriage, when Mary finally appeared at the table.

She'd gotten a long incredulous phone call from John after that, "Oh my god - really?" she'd said, as Sherlock had already popped up at St Bart's scaring her witless in the locker room. It wasn't exactly the time or place to say, "I actually knew he was dead."

Despite the fact that it was tempting, as she understood at least then John wouldn't direct all his anger at Sherlock.

"You've gotten better at lying then," Sherlock had said wandering into the lab, "Good."

She hung up on John claiming to be busy, and that's when Lestrade had rung Sherlock up, "A suicide bomber?" said Sherlock, his brows knitted, as his blue eyes met hers.

The idea of Jim loomed over them, all of a sudden, and she really hoped it wasn't, especially when she saw the trace of fear appear in his eyes.

If Moriarty was still alive – then what was the point of those two years?

And then he'd asked her, and she'd hesitantly said yes.

* * *

That's how she suddenly found herself on a crime-scene, a proper one, though people were eyeing her and Sherlock quite a lot. She suspected they weren't exactly used to the fact that he was not dead – "Sherlock – wow – err - Molly-," said Lestrade gaping slightly.

"She's with me," said Sherlock with his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring Lestrade, as they went beyond the police line.

They were escorted to what was apparently a vacant building, except the man who was splattered against the interior of the walls that was.

"I – don't know if there's much…to go on here. Anderson is at a bit of loss," said Lestrade.

"He would be," said Sherlock with narrowed eyes, observing the area.

The walls were spattered with blood, rubbish littering the floor, though in the middle of the room – there was a body placed on a broken chair, or what was left of the body – the upper body was a part of the room now, only the lower part remained.

Sticking out where the man's stomach used to be was a blackened device, which she assumed was the bomb, "Quiet," said Sherlock.

She'd only exhaled, and Lestrade had swallowed rather deeply. Obviously the detective inspector wasn't used to this kind of thing, she'd only grimaced a bit – she'd seen worse, and that was saying a lot.

But she was rather excited.

Molly had never seen Sherlock deduce before, seeing his eyes flash around in rapid speed all over the place, "This place was rented out to someone then?" he asked, his head turning towards Lestrade.

"Yes – they'd thought of renovating, but I don't think they'll have the place now. It's been empty for about six months."

"Interesting," said Sherlock with a tiny smile, "Since – someone has been living here."

"Who?" said Lestrade bewildered.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, his hand on his mobile phone, before he said, "Molly – what can you make of it?"

She'd been slowly bringing her utensils out, slipping on her gloves, and eyeing the room curiously, "It's a bit odd," she said, bending down briefly to peer at the man's remains, poking at the docile device, "You'd think if it was a proper bomb the whole of his body would be gone. After all wouldn't he'd been at a public place? That's what they usually do…" she said poking at the insides of the body, feeling some very apparent, "Oh…but it seems like the bomb was…inside the body."

"Really?" said Lestrade, "Who'd willingly let themselves be stitched up with a bomb?"

"Obviously someone who didn't know it was one," said Sherlock rolling his eyes, "I have enough now, let's go."

Molly gaped slightly, straightening herself from standing over the body, as Sherlock strode out of the room, "He's a bit like that, you'll get used to it," said Lestrade with raised brows.

"I know, it's just, I'm usually at the lab-,"

"Molly-," Sherlock's voice called out in the distance.

"Good luck," said Lestrade with a snort, "And do tell me if you lot have found something, knowing him he's probably on the trail of the murderer already."

* * *

"Stop!" said Sherlock, making the taxi pull over with, with her half-jumping in her seat.

He'd walked out at that, with her eyeing the cabbie sheepishly, unsure if she should pay him or not, though Sherlock returned after he'd given a homeless girl on the pavement some pounds.

"Why did you do that?" she said astonished that he'd at all care, especially midst traffic.

"Homeless Network, remember?" he said, "Drive on."

Those exact people had been a rather large aid in securing the tiny bits of their plan, making sure John was disorientated, making sure that Sherlock's pulse did not become apparent, before they'd manage to swap him with another body.

It was a good thing St Bart's had been rebuilding, or Sherlock would have actually fallen to his death, "Oh, right," she'd said.

* * *

She was surprised when he suggested they eat, as, "I won't be having anything, thank you," he said to the waitress who scurried off to get Molly's order, as he kept a close eye on his phone.

"So, some homeless people lived there?" she said, coming to the conclusion on her own.

He looked up from his phone, "Yes – until this afternoon of course – someone's been living there steady for some months, apparent by the newspapers that littered the floor – one was dated to yesterday."

"Wow, I didn't-,"

"Of course you wouldn't-," he said, and she sighed, "What? Was that not good?" he said looking completely puzzled.

It was stupid how a man who could discern every single detail about everyone, who knew what they'd done, why they'd done it – still didn't understand people.

She snorted briefly, wondering how John did put up with him at times, as he could be rather like a child, "No, it's – it's ok."

"Molly – if you don't want to-,"

"It's alright, just try to be – err - a bit less of a-,"

"Dick," he quipped with a brow raised, though he didn't at all seem wary or angry at her, "That's what John would say."

She laughed, "Yeah – um – I wouldn't call you that though," she said, thinking over the many words she'd thought throughout the years.

* * *

"I didn't think you'd just - try to find witnesses - I thought you'd do a bit more," she said a bit unsurely, as he glanced at her while they walked through a dark alley, about to meet their witness.

"There is not much else to be done right now – Mycroft is already on the lookout on the manufacturer of the bomb…" he said distractedly.

They'd found out for the last hour that the man who'd let himself be stitched up had thought it was a harmless device keeping his heart ticking, and she felt somewhat sorry for the man.

"You could – you could see where it came from?"

"There was a name – it certainly helped when you took a closer look. People always pride themselves over their work, and our bomb-maker is a show-off. The bomb wasn't intended to blow the man to pieces, or to damage anyone. It was a warning," said Sherlock seeming delighted.

"Oh," she said frowning, "That's – um – good?"

He turned quiet after that, his hands on his phone, as they walked on, and she tried to keep up with his long strides.

"Molly - do I make you nervous?" he said all of a sudden, and she blanched in return.

"No – no – I just – it's just – you're-,"_ fit._

That was her exact thought, when he'd popped round the first time, but that wasn't why.

She'd been silly before, she'd been foolish like this, but he just – he blew her away, "It's just, it's that – well," she took a deep breath, "You see people. You see everything about them, all the time, and I've always been a bit afraid that you'd…see…_me_."

That he'd see her faults, that he'd see everything, and she didn't know she could manage to get those words out. Not really, not yet, at least.

"You saw me," he said.

She smiled vaguely at that, remembering his words –_you do count_ – she placed a lot on those words, felt them bring her courage, where she regularly did not have with him.

Molly was about to open her mouth, her cheeks flushed, as she stared up at him.

But…

That's when she heard the gunshot, that's when she pushed him aside, and that's when she fell to the gravel with an ache in her side, and at her heart.

She'd never been shot before.

* * *

It hurt.

This wasn't what would happen if she'd been in her lab-coat safely tucked away in the morgue.

No, that wouldn't happen at all.

She never got shot there, there wasn't a chance of being shot there, but she found herself almost laughing.

She was…alive.

Despite the hurt, that exact fact made her feel terribly good, even though she seemed alone, excepting the curtains drawn around her bed.

Molly didn't know how long she'd been out, or which hospital she was at, but - "You knew it was dangerous, and you still asked her," the doors to the room had been slammed open, though the voices were whispering furiously.

It was John.

"You wouldn't-," said the familiar deep voice, her lips quirking upwards, as she tried to push herself upright in the bed, tried to tell them she was all right.

"For God's sake - Sherlock – she could have died."

There was a brief pause at that, "Don't you think I know that?" He sounded angry, but most of all…hurt, "Don't you think I considered that when she pushed me aside? I -,"

It was quiet after that, "I'm sorry," said John, who soon added, "You're still a dick, but I'm glad you're alive – just could you – if you do it again – I swear I'll kill you myself."

"Obviously."

Both men laughed at that, though the laughter faded away, "Will she be okay, though?" said John.

"She has been asleep for two hours. The doctors said that she's recovering, but do you mind taking a look? I just…"

"Ok…" said John, that's when the curtains were drawn open, and she blinked awkwardly at the two men.

"Hello," she said barely managing the word, for her throat was terribly sore, but she was soon handed a glass of water – from Sherlock.

She stared at him as she took tentative sips, and John briefly glanced at the pair of them, "I think I'll just -," he left at that, giving her a brief smile.

When she emptied the cup, "More?" asked Sherlock.

Molly shook her head, and he took the cup away from her. She did not know how she looked; neither did she really want to know.

Sherlock looked pale, his white shirt stained with blood, and she knew then it was hers, "I'm-," she started, "Molly – I-," he went.

She pressed her lips together, waiting for him to say whatever he was going to say.

He looked flushed now, unlike anything she'd ever seen him be, "That was good – I – what you did – back there – thank you."

"It's okay," she managed to rasp forward, though his brows were knitted.

"Obviously it's not me…who – I mean – I won't worry, I mean, if you were with me – not that – I-,"

Her eyes were wide, and she felt absolutely confused with what he was trying to say, obviously he saw that, and he cleared his throat before he said, "When you said that you didn't need to worry, because you were with me – I just wanted to say –_likewise_."

She didn't know what to say, falling silent, as he gave her a brief smile, "Get well – John and I will find-," he said, faltering, as his expression turned grim.

"I trust you," she said, and his expression cleared at that, "I've always trusted you… I know if there's anyone who could…you would…you'll find out who did it."

She was baffled when he gave her hand a small squeeze, his expression soft, until he stepped back and out of the room.

Molly rested her head on the pillow, knowing that right now, she didn't really need more than that.

* * *

"It only took her to be shot, so she'd put up with you, then?" said John chuckling, smoothing out the tie around his neck, "I'm starting to think it's a must."

Sherlock glanced at his friend briefly.

He was going on a date with Mary.

Ironed clothing. Cologne. Washed his hair with _his _products.

He was taking to touching his own hair, focusing on minute details, brushing off a tiny piece of thread from his shoulder, which John regularly did not care for, "You're asking her tonight, then?" he said ignoring his friends comment.

John was buying time. Fifteen minutes of visible fidgeting where _he_ had made no comment, for once. Sherlock was glad that he'd shaven off the moustache at least.

John let his hand drop to his side, turning his head towards him, "I suppose it's obvious, then?"

"Very," said Sherlock with a smirk.

"God…ok - I-," said John.

"Good luck," said Sherlock and John smiled in return.

"You know, it might not - it's not that-,"

_"John."_

John sighed loudly, "You'd think I wouldn't be bloody nervous, but I am."

"She will say yes."

"And how do you know that?"

"I just do," lied Sherlock.

John stared at him for a long time, "Right, ok – I'll go, then – so -,"

"Text me with the result," said Sherlock focusing on his laptop again, listening to John put on his jacket, before he finally heard the door to Baker Street smack shut.

Sherlock slammed the top of the laptop down, leaning back into his chair with a huff, as he steepled his fingers.

_Women._

He had already had the complicated throws of _the woman_, and by that assumption he had them all figured out, or so he thought. Molly, however - she was not one of _them. _She didn't even belong in the category_._

She did not manipulate, did not seek to be pleased, and she did not have any expectations. He had believed she would have, after all, her feelings had been glaringly obvious.

A lesser man could see it, but he hadn't fully seen it. He had brushed it off, attempted to ignore it, but it was her belief in him that had been his salvation during those years. It was an enduring belief that still existed when he returned, and one that made it feel like he'd never left to begin with.

John had moved on, a good thing, and it was Molly's devotion that had aided that. She had supported the man, brought him up when he'd been low, and been his friend.

Sherlock knew he was difficult at times, knew he could be particular about things, and how he liked them, but he did not enjoy change.

She had _not _changed.

She had only become easier around him, though it hadn't been until after the case. She'd been shot that night, by her own foolish instinct, and that was to save him.

He hadn't understood it at the time, though John had told him rather aggravated, "It should be obvious why she did all that, shouldn't it?"

Then why hadn't she done anything now?

He had expected her dress up, to smear on lipstick, to ask him for another round of coffee, but she'd only greeted him with usual regularity at Bart's.

The only shift was in her words, of how she relayed herself, instead of fearing his answers – she went along, talking and laughing.

She had always laughed, always talked, sometimes never seeming to shut up, and he'd often find himself annoyed.

But he found himself listening now, not bursting out with, "Molly," to end her phrases, before they'd even begin.

He did let off steam on her before, let his frustrations be known, but he had never truly seen that he had. Mycroft's remark, "Your home from home," had finally hit him, with a jerk in his stomach, and he didn't know what to feel about it.

It was a very unfamiliar feeling, those idle little fluttering's, that persisted in her presence these days, as he grew to enjoy truly impressing her.

She had more extensive words in her vocabulary, though often a soft, "Wow," would make him smile.

Her astonishment had always pleased him, and the fact that she truly trusted him. He did not fully understand the extent of it until he'd met John, as the man had helped him, made him understand that he hadn't been kind. He saw that, he knew it, but he was afraid that if he for one moment were kind – that she'd break him.

It turned out she already had.

* * *

He ignored it.

Though when a case came along, and John was busy with wedding arrangements, "I need help - do you mind?" he had said to her, and she in turn looked surprised.

"Ok," she said, instead of making any excuses, or fumbling with her words, "I'll get my coat."

He did not know if it was for her benefit or for his, that she decided to come along, and he didn't know if he should reflect too much about it.

* * *

Instantly if John was busy he'd text her, she'd show up if she wasn't too busy, or tired. People made comments, though he chose to ignore them.

They always did talk.

* * *

They'd gotten too familiar, he knew that, but he didn't find it spectacularly out of character to eat with her after a harrowing case. He did not find it foolish to sit with her long into the night, to sit on her sofa listening to her talk, while the cup of tea went cold in his hands.

It was only because John wasn't there.

* * *

He found himself asking her to join him, when he knew John could. He found excuses to be at Bart's, excuses to send her texts, to give her coffee and he found John texting him –

_You like her_

_You're not answering. So you DO like her._

_Come on Sherlock. You were on the front page!_

_OK. FINE._

He still ignored it.

* * *

She had been halfway out of the door of the lab, suddenly taking several steps backwards, before she looked rather mad disappearing into the tiny storage room.

He opened his mouth in surprise, blue eyes turning to the door that swung open, when he saw a man pop his head in, "Sorry, have you seen a woman? Molly Hooper?"

"No," he said with a quick smile, which did not reach his eyes.

Dishevelled hair. Dirty boots. Torn jeans. Uni-friend?

Molly had hidden herself.

Ex?

The man dropped his thin-lipped smile, "Right, tell her Tom was here."

_Ex._

"Will do," said Sherlock pleasantly, scrunching up his nose a bit, though his entire face turned blank, as the man disappeared.

"Is he gone?" he heard her small voice say.

He stood up taking quick steps, as he opened the door, and stepped into the dark with her, "Sherlock?" she said with a squeaky voice, "What – what are you doing here?"

"Thought we might have a _chat_."

He sounded cold.

He knew that.

"Oh," she said.

"Who is _Tom_?"

He sounded jealous.

He knew that.

Sherlock became aware of how her shoulder hit his chest, how her breath reached him, how if he only moved an inch forward he could be touching her. His arms remained at his sides, still, unmoving.

"He's just an old friend," she said after a minute of silence.

"You might have gotten better at lying, but you won't fool me."

She snorted in the dark, her face briefly visible by the light shining from the doors edges, "I know. He's just an ex…he's been ringing me up lately."

The words leave his mouth, before he thinks them through, "You could have pretended I was your boyfriend. You used Jim for that exact purpose."

The door bangs open, and he's left in the dark.

* * *

She's standing in the lab; her hands are on her hips when he walks out from the darkness. Molly wheels around, "I did not use him to make you jealous."

He opens his mouth to make a reply; only she cuts him short, "I used him to forget you, didn't work, though, has it?"

There is wetness building up in her eyes, visible pain, "I thought that maybe…just maybe if we became friends it would be easier, but it hasn't…It's just worse."

"Molly-,"

"I know you're married to your work. You don't need to tell me, it's alright – I'll be fine – I've managed so far."

She is about to leave, her feet taking her to the door, her shoulders hunched, "I never thanked you," he said.

His mouth is ahead of his mind once more, but this time she stops. She turns around, "What? But – you've-," he cuts her off this time, silencing her with his mouth.

Her hands are bunched up around his shirt collar, her body rigid in surprise, softening all of a sudden, and he feels the smile on her lips, feels them tug the corners of his mouth upwards.

He doesn't know how to stop, but neither does he try.

He can't ignore it, couldn't even if he tried.


	7. Wings

**A/N:** Prompt by Elixirbb - Professor!Potter!Lock

* * *

**Wings**

It had taken seven years before she; Molly Hooper had finally landed herself detention. None were more surprised than she was at the unexpected turn of events. Her fellow Hufflepuff's sniggering at her, as she was "Supposed to _lead _an example," said the head of their house, which was why she had detention for a month.

Imagine her, a head girl getting detention; imagine her with her Outstanding's, and only one Exceeding Expectations - getting _detention._

This was her first, and last, she supposed. They were nearing the end of the year after all. Not much damage she could do now, she believed, still flabbergasted she'd been punished to lead an example.

_A month_ - because she'd let the rest of Hufflepuff's get out of hand, since they were celebrating their victory against Slytherin in the final Quidditch match of the year, ultimately making it obvious they were leading in the House Cup.

Of course they'd be celebrating, considering the fact that they'd fallen second after Slytherin for the other six years. It was a butterbeer too much, she suspected, though she supposed the smuggled in firewhiskey did the trick.

None of the other houses went through that sort of thing, they'd regularly get off without a hitch, but she suspected that her lack of command during the whole was the problem. She had been a dutiful head girl up to this point, managing to keep her voice up, and bringing things to a rest. Unfortunately enough she was amidst the celebrations, as much as the others. It wasn't her fault that one of the first years had managed to set the carpet ablaze in their excitement; a simple wave of their wands would have sufficed, except in this particular circumstance all hell had broken loose in the common room.

That was where the firewhiskey had been the problem, certainly when she found herself facing the head of her house and the headmaster, with her head buzzing.

She never thought anyone had spiked her harmless butterbeer, that idea was beyond her, so she supposed it wasn't exactly surprising she'd gotten detention, and that her head girl status had been revoked for the month, "_To set an example."_

She spent the rest of her night fuming in anger, in the privacy of her room, as they did not revoke that bit at least.

Everyone had been talking about it when she turned up at the Great Hall the next day, a sudden clapping coming from several of the other tables, applauding her stupidity, at which she bashfully lowered her head. The Hufflepuff's were torn between amusement and anger. After all, 50 points had been removed, putting them head to head against Slytherin again. They were all aware that none were to blame, though somehow several of them felt it was easier to rest the sole blame on her shoulders.

This did not make her feel any better, especially considering the next month.

Her detention would not be so bad hadn't it been for the fact it would be under Professor Holmes' strict supervision. He was their Professor in Potions, which was the only class she had ever got an Exceeding Expectations in, coincidentally.

Professor Holmes was head of Ravenclaw, a highly methodical man, who spent most of his days convincing everyone he belonged in Slytherin due to his highly anti-social behaviour, and the fact that he spent most of his classes calling them, "Idiots." Unlike Professor Watson who kept Defence Against the Dark Arts, loved by all, and presumably Professor Holmes' only friend.

No one understood why the unlikely pair were friends, though their previous history was highly connected with the Ministry, and Professor Holmes had even been offered a position as an Auror.

A position he'd declined, according to Professor Watson, "He's retired." Retired at 26 seemed quite silly, though no one felt like arguing with Professor Watson. After all, he could charm anyone into submission.

"You're late," he said without looking up from his desk.

His detention was of course set in the bleak confides of the dungeons, where Potions were held, though, despite it, the room was kept meticulously cleaned, painted much brighter than expected, "For you to distinguish your ingredients." All of the students were convinced he lived there, due to the fact that they'd find him there at odd times, either at the crack of dawn, or late into the evening, knowing fully well where the students intended to go or do during the late hour.

He was universally hated because of his particular attention to detail, which no one fully understood, "Not many wizards do," he said, when anyone dared ask him.

There were moments where she believed he was rather charming, though those few instances fell through quite often, despite his looks. Because, notwithstanding the general dislike that centred on the man - no one, especially her could fault him at his appearance.

His robes were clean, dark, and well suited to his well-kept form. One couldn't ignore his youthful appearance either, though he seemed older than the lot of them, due to his piercing blue-green hued eyes, which seemed to have seen their share of horrors throughout the years. With his dark curled hair, high cheekbones, and at times brooding appearance - when he did stalk throughout the hallways of the school, all hearts were a flutter.

Instantly Molly flushed, hoping he was not adept at Occlumency, though it would explain his aforementioned knowledge of everyone's doings at Hogwarts, "Sorry, sir. I was kept by-,"

"A first year, yes. I know you help the younger ones, Miss Hooper – singed your robe, did he?" he said slamming the book he was attending to shut, his eyes turning towards her.

She looked down at herself in surprise, seeing a piece of her robe burnt to a crips, only to look up in surprise, when the spot soon reappeared.

His wand was out to her astonishment, and it was an uncommon sight. Professor Holmes did not often display his magic, except under extraordinary circumstances, and she hardly expected him to know such a spell to begin with, "Oh, thank you – sir," she stuttered, feeling stupid, as she drew off her robes, setting it aside on the desk in front of his.

"You're welcome, Miss Hooper," he said with a bored voice, "Now, for your detention – you will be assisting me in marking papers."

"Sir?" she said shocked, almost losing her footing by the desk.

"Of course if you wish to clear off the first years cauldron's without the use of magic, you are certainly entitled to do so, but I suppose you'll find this exercise of your intelligence much more pleasant," he said bringing forth several parchments, standing up to hand the large pile over to her.

"I – I," she started with the heavy weight in her hands.

"After all you're the best in my class."

She stared at him in disbelief, "You've only ever given me Exceeding Expectations, sir."

He raised a brow at that, letting the parchments rest in her hands, before he then promptly settled behind his desk again.

When she'd stood a minute in silence, glancing down at the stack in her hands he finally looked up, "Begin, Miss Hooper, or do I need to explain in thorough detail how it is done?"

Molly shook her head quickly at that, feeling a bit uneasy by it all. She was surprised he trusted her with such a task, more or less allowing her to pour over the Fifth year's essays, which she marked after how he usually did.

Her brown eyes did flicker up at him from time to time, for he was sitting with another stack, which she supposed was her own year's papers. When she finally did finish, several hours later, feeling annoyed by the sheer ignorance in some of the papers, which concentrated in impressing, though wholly lacking substance, she did sort of agree with him that they were _idiots._

At least in his eyes they were, though she felt terrible marking some of the students less, than she would, but she had to be fair.

"Sentiment should not cloud your judgement," he said at one point, making her almost drop her quill.

"No – no, sir," she said trying to disguise her surprise over his speaking.

"It is a fault many wizards have, and often leads to more trouble than it should," he said.

His way of viewing the world was cold in her own opinion, though she hoped this was only in marking papers, and not about everything.

When she'd set her quill aside, "You can go, Miss Hooper," he said without looking up, "Until tomorrow night."

* * *

Their detentions were filled with quills scraping on papers, with silence, and the sudden unexpected commentary from him. To begin with he did seem cold, though his eyes gave way too hidden emotion, which she hardly expected from him. It was even more surprising to find him suddenly roaming the hallways, and even taking breakfast in the Great Hall, an unusual sight for all present, "What's the freak doing out from his cave?" one of her classmates had said, and she was surprised to find herself deducting points off.

Several groaned, others were completely at a loss, and she'd stood up with her heavy books, "He's our Professor, and needs…more respect than that." She had heard worse things said about him, really, and even things she'd said herself, but she did not see him like she once had.

Truth be told, he seemed a lonely man.

He had briefly met her eyes from the head table, though she quickly set off, not willing to hear other classmates despair over her – "unfair" treatment of fellow Hufflepuff's.

* * *

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," he said, when her hand was on the very edge of cramping from all the writing. She was certain that the students would see the difference in the scrawling's on the papers, her writing was far to pretty, which was why she'd taken to make it a bit unreadable, attempting to mimic his somewhat unclear scribbling.

"Sorry?" she said, "Sir," she quickly added realising her mistake.

He barely blinked an eye at that, his blue eyes steady on hers, as he said, "Thank you."

She did not quite understand what he was thanking her for, though she got it in the end, and only looked down at the Sixth year's papers with a wry smile, "You're welcome, sir."

* * *

His behaviour in class did not alter, though she was surprised when she found an - 'O' marking her recent paper, which she found baffling, as she hadn't seen it as her best work. The essay was faulty at best, with mistakes, and during her second time re-reading it, she did not quite understood why he'd been so kind.

This was a fact she took up on the second week of her detention, "Sir?" she'd said, daring to speak, as she'd been nervously biting at the end of her quill.

"Yes, Miss Hooper?" he said dropping his quill, and stretching out his hand on the desk, clearly feeling the strain of his work.

"I barely deserved an Acceptable on that essay I wrote, sir."

"I found your remarks creative."

"But – _sir_."

"You lacked passion in your papers, nothing more. Your knowledge is outstanding, though commonly textbook."

"Still-,"

"You have earned it," he said, and she knew when to drop the subject.

* * *

Somehow the quiet evenings with him became her solace in the otherwise loud bustle in her classes, or with her friends. There was something quite organic, sitting with her quill, instead of her wand, marking essays, and allowing the silence to fall between them. She didn't need him to speak, though every time he did, she wished he spoke more, "How come you turned down being an Auror, sir?"

Molly had never asked him such a personal question, neither did she really expect him to answer, "Dull," he said with the corner of his mouth upturned.

"How can being an Auror be dull?" she said astonished.

He looked up at that, "John would enjoy it of course, though I have never been a enthusiast. It is more for those inclined for suspense in exposing their strength, than anything."

"Oh," she said, not sure how to make of the fact that he had addressed Professor Watson so informally, especially to her.

His eyes were down on his desk when he said, "I suspect you will follow the footsteps of your mother, and study healing."

"How – how did you know?"

"No one works hard if they don't have a purpose."

* * *

She realised what had happened.

It was terrible really, for she could not keep her eyes away from him, as the candlelight fell upon his face.

Molly always found a way to ask him about something, often unnecessary, often silly, and in the end his deep voice would make her more nervous, than before she asked.

"What is wrong, Miss Hooper?" he drawled, his expression confused, as she let her eyes drop to her essays.

"Nothing," she said out loud, her mind racing, as she'd realised how much she liked him. She was being a silly schoolgirl, infatuated with her professor, who most likely did not give two straws about her. When she would accidentally meet him in the hallways, however, he would give a brief nod in return, sometimes even a smile. Often he would single her out in class, remarking on her intelligence, unlike the rest, and she felt flushed from it all.

She hoped he did not know. She wished he didn't know, but she assumed he did. More than often she would find him looking at her, a bewildered expression on his face that would drop the instance he caught her returning his glance. It was painful being in his presence all of a sudden, for before it had been distant admiration, now it was want. She did not need to have that clouding her head, as her N.E.W.T.S were coming up soon, but she couldn't help it.

"Are you certain?" he said, and she almost managed to push all of her essays onto the floor, though she quickly recovered.

"Yes, I'm quite fine, sir."

* * *

She felt the tears threaten her eyes when she let the quill finally rest on the desk, the pile of essays marked and finished. Molly had been sitting the last hour, pretending to have still more work to do, and trying to look over several, trying to find more fault in all of it, but she couldn't.

She was only trying to find an excuse to stay longer, and it hurt her that he hadn't spoken throughout the whole, neither had she found her voice amidst it. Somehow knowing that she wouldn't be in his presence like this, made it all unbearable, as she knew she would only be seeing him like a regular Professor.

After all he was nothing more, though, she felt that she'd grown to know him.

She knew by the vague up-turn of his mouth if he was pleased, by the way his eyes would light up during class that he was excited, and by the way he sometimes grew furious in class, that he was more with himself, than with them.

He did care for his students, though he never gave the impression of it, because he wished for them to succeed.

Professor Holmes had not given himself away in any way, he had not done anything particular, than being himself, but she admitted there and then that she liked him. That despite herself she would miss his strange company of silence, and so she stood up from her self-appointed desk, "Goodnight, sir."

He did not say anything in return, her feet sluggishly driving her towards the door, not managing to turn around to see him, as she walked away. It was then, when she had reached for the door that she felt a warm hand covering hers.

She held her breath startled, as his fingers entwined with hers, "Your pulse," he said softly, his hand firm on hers, not letting her go, though she did not try to wrench her hand away from his.

She felt tiny then and there, felt how silly she was, how young she was, but she did not want to leave. She only wished to feel the weight of his large hand on hers, to feel his fingers stroking on her knuckles, almost making her feel faint.

Molly stood her ground, "It's – it's -," his voice faltered, as his hand pressed on her wrist, until his hand finally left hers.

She felt cold all of a sudden, as if it had never happened.

And it felt like it when she turned around.

His back was to hers, as he stood by his desk, "Goodnight Miss Hooper," he said.

Molly almost opened her mouth, though the instant she found the strength to do so, "Goodnight," he repeated.

She ran at that, ran so far her legs could take her, finding herself in her room by sheer will, and burrowed her head in her pillow crying.

* * *

He did not reappear in the Great Hall the morning after, neither was he in class, as Professor Watson took over, "Professor Holmes is sick today, so I will be taking over for a little while." She was the only one who didn't cheer, feeling visibly ill in class, and so it went on for a week.

In the end she herself got sent to the hospital wing, for she barely ate, and barely managed to sleep. She was to be blamed for his disappearance, and she did not know how to feel about it. She knew she would be judged, and she knew he would be sacked if there were any implications of that sort.

When she did get to the hospital wing, she was ushered in with whispers, and given her own sleeping draught to take. Though she was left alone to her own devices, as a Second Year had managed to set himself on fire with a faulty wand. Her eyes were soon drawn to a bed, which was shielded away unlike the rest.

She wondered…was he there?

Molly wandered off to it quietly, pulling aside the curtains, and found his sleeping form in the bed.

He seemed restless, tossing and turning, a crease between his brows, and it pained her to see him like this.

She grabbed his hand, feeling the warmth beneath her palm, and took a deep intake of breath, as he seemed to calm down at that.

A voice tutted in the distance, "I thought so – I just never thought he'd be heartsick," said Madam Hudson, appearing besides her, making Molly take back her hand.

"It'll be fine," said Madam Hudson nodding towards her, and Molly hesitantly took his hand in hers again, tangling their fingers together, "He needs to be touched, I tried my best, but it didn't help really – sometimes you just need someone-," the woman stopped, giving to smile, " – You're not the first, nor will you be the last."

She knitted her brows at that, "Sorry?"

"Oh – no – don't take me wrong – he's not one for regular witches, I mean – you're not the first student to fall for their professor. It might be frowned upon, but it's quite ordinary, believe it or not."

"I don't think-,"

"It's why he's here – couldn't sleep apparently, not much of an eater either, so, here we are."

Molly smiled, and Madam Hudson brought her a chair to sit in. She did not know how long she stayed, or when she fell asleep, only that when she woke up, his other hand was on her cheek.


	8. Cane

**Cane**

She saw he'd been crying again, though he hid it so well sometimes it was difficult to know. His clothes were the same she'd seen him wear a week ago, and she'd promised herself she wouldn't see him again, but she couldn't help herself. Here was John Watson, seeming to be without a friend in the world, less laughter around in his eyes, and quietness she couldn't even begin to comprehend.

His hands are tucked around the mug, but the tea hasn't touched his lips. She's certain it is cold by now, no steam rising from the brew, and she is trying so very hard not to burst out with things.

She isn't supposed to, she's supposed to keep her mouth shut, and just pretend. Pretend that a heavy weight is on her heart as well, and by all means it is, "You should - you should go out," she said, and she's probably said it a thousand times already.

He chuckles lightly, though it catches in his throat, "Yeah, you're probably right." He tries to clear the cobwebs in his mouth, "I've still got a job to do, after all."

"Does Sarah?" she said giving a brief nod, her brows knitting together, and he looks at her with a brief smile.

"No, we – we didn't really work out obviously, because of…"

He doesn't say the name, but it lingers in the air.

"Well, you'll meet someone," she said allowing herself to grin properly.

He's smiling in return, some colour returning to him, "What about you, then?"

He always turns the conversation over to her, she's not used to that, she's used to listening – to taking in every word, and it's a task to say, "No, I'm dating a bit you know – made some silly online profile, but it's – there's nobody like…"

There's that pause again, it's full of her avoiding his eyes, and with him frowning. She shouldn't have said anything, though it is difficult not to go there.

"He was a complete idiot around you," he said breaking the silence.

She looks up from staring in her cup, baffled over the turn, since they'd regularly slide over to another topic if something like this came around. That was how they always dealt with it.

"Sherlock?" she said regretting saying it, but he just shakes his head in what is clear frustration.

"Such a prick, honestly – look at Christmas," he said, and he's laughing all of sudden, "He starts snapping at you for wearing a pretty dress, and ends up making a complete arse of himself - like he always does."

She notes that there aren't any past-tenses being used, tries to ignore it – "Such a prick – and he's dead."

His laugh is hollow now, drifting away, until he slams down his cup of tea on the table, "Sorry," he said quickly, clenching and unclenching his hand, as another hand goes briefly over his leg.

He's been using the cane again, and it hurts to see it.

"My leg," he said with a slight snort, his brows furrowed.

He is staring on her floor, the conversation ending before it actually started, "I better go – you've probably-,"

"No, I -," she starts, but he's off on his feet, slipping on his jacket – before she can properly protest.

With his back turned to hers, a slight hunch in his shoulders, he lingers by her door, "He's not alive, is he?"

"Sorry?" she said baffled.

"Is he alive?" he said again, turning around to face her.

She sees the hope in his face, his eyes searching hers, and she said, "No."

He gives a brief sigh at that, "Right, of course he's –_dead_ -," his eyes are cast down, meeting hers soon, "Let's chat soon – ok?"

"Yeah," she said with an attempt on a smile.

He leaves at that, and she lets herself fall down on her sofa.

* * *

It's night when she hears it – the creaking on the floor. She jumps in her bed alarmed, quietly slipping out of her covers, and trying to find the sharpest object in her bedroom. Her alarm clock certainly isn't good enough, but she takes it, hopeful she might chuck it at someone's face. Somehow the concept of throwing things seems almost pleasant, and she wishes she had enough plates to break. Molly knows who's out there, who's really sneaking about, and even_ he_ – he's terrible at keeping himself quiet, but that's because he wants to be found.

The lights are switched on when she gets into the living room, with him sat on her sofa in his familiar coat, "Hello."

"Hi," she said catching him staring at the alarm clock, "Sorry, I thought you were a burglar."

He briefly smirks at that, looking tired, "Come here," he said softly, his blue eyes twinkling in the dark.

Grudgingly, despite wanting to throw the alarm clock on his face she complies, and settles down besides him, with him drawing her near to his side.

She doesn't know if it's for him, or for her, though it is nice to hear him breathe. Nice to feel the texture of his dark coat, his damp curls from the rain outside, and good to feel him solid underneath her fingertips. They've been doing this every time he turns up, though she does not try to read too much into it, but she still does.

Her lips do always end up seeking his at some point, and it's always brief, chaste – with him looking quite curious. She doesn't try harder than that, doesn't feel like she can, though tonight she just tries to listen to his still beating heart instead.

"He'll be fine, Molly," he said.

She's wondering if he is saying that for her, or for him.

He's the one who told her to stay away, though she supposes he's not supposed to be in her flat either. It's dangerous for everyone, but he always seems to risk it.

"How do you know?" she said quietly, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Look," he said, and she does.

John forgot his cane.

She laughs properly now, giving into it fully, as some brief tears are shed in relief. He is just looking at her, mildly amused, and she hates herself for being oblivious, but she doesn't when it is his mouth that seeks hers out this time.


	9. Potion

**Potion**

"It's not that I don't like you."

There it was - the plunge in her stomach, familiar and right on time. It was like a knife, with a thin blade, brief, but good enough to create a lasting scar, "Oh, it's alright," she found herself saying, laughing even, as if it was indeed not a hurtful remark.

"I'd love for us to be friends though, you know, since I couldn't imagine me without you really."

"_Can't imagine me without you – but this is a dumping conversation?" _she thought hiding her grimace behind her cup of coffee, before he went off to get another one.

Another cuppa and she was sat with him, her fingers wrapped around a napkin tearing it to pieces. Her clock was ticking away, her eyes darting towards it, until she hastily stood up, "I'm so sorry Mark – I've got to go – I'm late for work."

"Right, sorry – for keeping you," he said with a slight raise of his brow.

She tried to seem not bothered as she wandered out, knowing fully well that it was her job that was the problem, or well the fact that she devoted much more time to her job that was (like he did).

Molly had spent most of her life dedicating herself to school, to her studies, to work, and she had papers to be proud of, a well-paying job, and was the best in her field.

A boyfriend seemed like a simpler object really, one that she felt would be obtained some time down the road, and of course she was past _some time_. She was glad she hadn't exactly jotted down a list about what she wanted in that aspect, since she knew she'd be disappointed with the lack of said boyfriend, as she was in her slightly demented cat.

Molly Hooper had a flat and a cat; that was all really.

She had one friend Meena, who was busy with her kids and her husband. Meena who'd give her wry smiles when she'd tell of another failed date, or missed date, or just failed opportunity ("Well – it is mainly your fault.").

Society at large expected her to be married, and Molly didn't know what she entirely expected. Before she never cared, not once, but then the empty flat started to bother her. Around that time she decided it was time to get some company, and of course it helped having the sound of mewing come from her flat when she approached the front door. It certainly gave the illusion that the cat adored her, and hadn't ruined the one expensive thing in her flat; the quilted white throw she had slung over the sofa. Toby was difficult, and changeable.

One second he'd be sweet enough to sit on her lap allowing her to stroke him, then he'd drop a dead rat on her bed sheets (his own view of good), or stalk around ignoring her, only on occasion getting her attention to badger her for food. Her existence was easy – wake up, eat, feed Toby, go to work, work over-time with no pay, return home, eat, and feed Toby and then sleep.

The routine was getting tiring, though she supposed it was the working over-time that did that. She didn't exactly need to, but…it was difficult to say no. He could pretend to be charming, _so_ charming sometimes, and it always made her smile, until she understood why that was. Molly would always get it by the time she turned away, her cheeks turning red, until she realised how long she'd probably be staying. Not that she minded his company, for he'd stay there of course with her, often silent, or listening to her natter on, despite herself. She didn't entirely manage silence in his presence, and she hated herself for it.

If her friends would define her as anything, it would be the opposite of mousy, but she did turn a shade of grey in his presence.

This she supposed was something everyone felt, though he'd never really give her too much ill will about it. He'd only ever give her some scathing remark when other people were present really, and that was certainly confusing. One second he'd be alright with her stuttering everything forward, and then he'd tell her to not to joke with anyone else. She didn't wish to listen, not at all, but she did anyway.

Oh, how she loathed him from time to time. If he'd been stupid she wouldn't find him attractive. If he'd been simpering she wouldn't like him at all. If he'd been overly nice it would feel unnatural, and if he wasn't _him – _well she wouldn't like him at all. The fact was, if Sherlock was anything other than himself then she would just dislike him, but he wasn't, so she didn't.

In other words he'd ruined her entirely for others, by allowing her to love her job without complaint, as she knew he thought she was good at her job. Being good at something in Sherlock Holmes' eyes meant a great deal more, than some compliment from some other men who'd not understand the complexities of her job.

She wished she'd find a man like him, a man who'd understand, and who'd let her be fascinated with every aspect of her work, but then again – there was certainly no such man. There was neither any cure nor remedy for her situation, as most men wouldn't adapt to her schedule.

Honestly, no man would want to adapt to _her._

In some ways she didn't mind the idea of being childless, unmarried, and hopelessly infatuated with the consulting detective with his propped up collar. No, she didn't, but she knew that by the emptiness of her flat – that her life at the moment didn't make her feel terribly happy.

If she had some family she'd be all right, but they were all long gone – so every single holiday was spent working shifts no one wanted. Everyone else was busy with his or her family and she only had her cat.

"Molly – you don't mind, do you?" said the voice of Andrew Williams waking her up from her thoughts.

She blinked up at him, feeling the dryness of her eyes, as she stifled a yawn, "It's alright," she said giving to nodding, and he grinned in return.

"You're a lifesaver," he said with a wink, showing off his white straight teeth, before wandering out.

More over-time, but at least with pay this time. She felt tired, though she'd gotten loads of sleep the night before. Her body still couldn't cope with it, and she rested her head with slight defeat on her desk. Molly didn't mind taking the extra shifts or so, as she didn't exactly have anything else going on at the moment.

Of course she didn't know that on this particular night her entire life was going to change, because one man was in denial, and trying to find a solution to his_ problem_.

—

The lights were off in the lab, but she flickered them on stifling a groan when she caught sight of the mess. Someone had left their project behind, obviously some of the interns who weren't aware of regulations.

Molly turned off the lights, and considered walking off without clearing it up. Her conscience got the better of her, as she turned the lights on again, and hurried off to tidy up the mess. The ingredients that were displayed mystified her; since usually the things lying behind would be blood samples, or whatnot - things that were clearly from Bart's.

All she saw here was brought in, and she widely wondered if someone was attempting to make drugs.

She giggled soundly at that, and cursed herself for watching too much telly, before she started to empty off some blue liquid in the wash. It didn't smell anything in particular, neither did it do anything extraordinary, and she knew that she was being an idiot by not grabbing some disposable gloves, but she knew her hand was steady enough – it was only a few steps to the wash after all.

Her neglect paid off when the lab door banged open, and a gasp of shock leapt out of her mouth. In few seconds she was splattered by the blue liquid, covering her coat, her face, her hands, and the beaker shattering on the floor, "Fuck," she said hurrying off to wash her hands, not giving the unexpected intruder any time of day, as she washed herself hurriedly. Molly did not feel any pain, or abrasions, or anything. Out of sheer bewilderment - as some of the liquid was on her lips – she licked.

It tasted of blueberry.

Her shoulders slumped at that – someone had been using the lab equipment to make a soda? She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and she turned her eyes towards the lab door. It lay dormant now, no intruder on either side of the door. Whoever had been there had gone, and with a shake of her head she cleared off the rest of the equipment with a sigh.

—

Molly felt oddly stared at when she got to work the next morning, and she wondered what was wrong, when she left the tube trying to spot her reflection on any shiny surface. She looked perfectly normal she reasoned, there was no spot of toothpaste on her face, neither was her blouse open revealing her undergarments.

Yet, she felt eyes turning to her.

The eyes were mostly male, all of them unabashedly staring, and she avoided the eye contact entirely in confusion.

Perhaps she was having a particular good day?

She'd showered after all, but she did that every day to try to push down the scent of death. Obviously today was just one of _those days._ But she never had those days… Those days belonged to overly beautiful women with long luscious hair, who'd prance around confidently, and she did not prance.

She got to Bart's in the end, eyes turning towards the men whose stares did not waver any less with her staring in return.

Passing the reception, she held tightly to her bag, intending to skip off to the changing rooms, when Andrew approached her. Molly wondered if it was another shift change again, his eyes were downcast on a set of papers in his hands, "Morning…" he started, looking up taken aback, "Molly?"

His usual grin that she was accustomed to was larger than normal, "_Hello_," he repeated ignoring the papers in his hands, while she raised her brows.

_Obviously everyone's odd today_, she thought, "Hi," she said faltering a bit, as his hand streaked through his blonde hair.

"So…Right…you know I've forgotten," he said wide-eyed, with a chuckle.

Her brows connected at that.

"Well, I better change then," she said intending to barge past him, when he started to walk with her. Andrew never walked with her. He was more interested in exchanging stories of his conquests loudly with the other doctors.

"Mind if I join you?" he said in a low voice.

She stopped in her stride gaping at him, "Sorry?"

"No – I didn't – well – actually – sorry – I just – you look – you look great today," he stuttered forward, clearing his throat soundly, before walking off, almost walking into the nearest door.

_Right…_

The weirdness from that morning didn't disturb her while she worked luckily, though several came in without anything particular to say, just staring at her, "Err – are you ok?" she'd ask, and they'd just nod, before walking off. It didn't hit her truly before lunch that this wasn't some strange happenstance really, when she occupied a table alone like usual – only to find several male colleagues she'd never spoken to sit down by her table.

That was certainly odd, even more so when they let her talk, not trying to show off their knowledge, or undermining hers. She was grateful when she was done however, feeling eyes on her, as she left the cafeteria.

Molly didn't mind attention, not really, but it was disturbing to find no source. She half-expected to find herself naked on the front page of the Daily Mail considering how people were looking at her. She rang Meena however, "Have you ever had one of those days?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where someone's staring?"

"Well, I suppose."

"I don't really mean – someone though – I mean _everyone_."

"Everyone?"

"They're all acting really strange today."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Ok…well…_maybe_ you should go to bed earlier tonight, then?"

Molly gave up at that, assuming she was just being really paranoid more than anything, but the roses that were stood on her desk told her she wasn't. Especially when roses kept appearing with cards signed by people she didn't even know, but she could only assume worked there.

—

When she was at the lab later that afternoon, inconvenienced from time to time by some colleague who'd pop up for a one-sided chat – she spotted the lab doors slamming open. Coat, dark curls and a pair of searing blue eyes greeted her, and she felt her stomach coil, but she pretended to be occupied, "Hello," she said, trying not to smile at the sight of him.

He held the door open with a curious expression, and she looked up, wondering – just _wondering_ – if the odd behaviour of the rest had reached him.

"Molly," he said with a brief nod, slipping off his scarf and coat, "Do you have the test results of a Mr Peterson's blood?"

"Not here."

"Do you mind?" he said with that familiar false smile of his.

She frowned. _Of course he wouldn't – typical,_ she thought walking out to fetch him the test results. And yet she was pleased despite herself that he was at least acting normal.

"John," she said almost walking on the man who'd been standing outside the lab doors with his arms crossed.

"Oh," he said taking a step back, laughing a bit, before he looked at her funny, "Wow – Molly – _hello_."

She stared at him for a second – _not him too_ – "Oi! Where's Sherlock – then? He told me he knew who killed Peterson," said the familiar voice of Lestrade who walked down the corridor, taking to walk slower upon approaching them, "Molly! Hello!"

Both men were staring at her with vacant expressions, grinning, "I've got to go-," she said eyeing them nervously.

First of all John was engaged, and Lestrade was still married, yet both of them were acting funny. Greg had even pocketed his hand, trying to hide away his ring finger.

"Where?" both men said in unison, soon looking at one another with brief annoyance flickering over their faces.

"Um, I've got to get some results, just - so you can finish the case."

"Oh, right," said Greg with a nod.

John said, "I'll keep you company if you want."

"We'll _both_ keep you company," said Greg with a glare at John.

"It's alright, honestly – I can get it on my own," she said starting to walk away, except Greg blocked her path.

"Detective Inspector," said a voice, and Molly was surprised to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, "I think Molly can manage on her own, don't you agree?" he said.

"Obviously you want her for yourself," said Greg angrily.

"What?" said Molly.

Everyone had gone mad. Honestly, that was it. They'd turned mental, or she was dreaming, or _she'd_ gone mad. The latter seemed the likeliest, "No – I do not want her," scoffed Sherlock, and despite herself the remark stung. He didn't need to heavily underline it, of course the way he possessively took her arm at that point did sort of contradict his statement, "Oh," she said softly, as both John and Greg were walking towards her and Sherlock.

He was pulling her away by the elbow, and she caught a glimpse of several other males who were walking down the hallway, purposively heading into their direction.

"Molly – you follow regulation?" said Sherlock who was dragging her along, his steps increasing in speed, and soon she was running alongside of him.

"Yes," she bit out, glancing briefly behind her, watching more and more men following the pair of them.

"Then why the_ hell_ did you not use gloves?" he snapped, and she gaped at him return.

Being promptly shoved into a car, forced to skive off work, which she'd never done in her life was nerve-wracking – having Sherlock fling her ringing camera phone out of the open car window certainly made her cross, "Why?" she'd gasped, peering out of window to get a glimpse of it being smashed by the wheel of a car behind them.

There was not much love lost there, if one were to ignore the myriad of images of Toby forced into ridiculous clothing, which he then promptly obliterated with his claws the next day (it was only for laughs really).

"Your phone was ringing, obviously they will have noticed you've gone missing from Bart's Molly, or didn't the crowd of men give it away?" he said scathingly besides her, his phone in the palm of his hand, texting hurriedly.

A woman with dark hair was driving the sleek black car, and Molly didn't really know what to say, neither did she understand what was going on, "How did you know I spilt the – liquid - from last night?"

Sherlock took a breath at that, "It was mine."

"Yours?"

"An experiment gone wrong, obviously. I found it at Baskervilles, if you remember?"

He had mentioned long ago that he'd nicked some of files over there for her and his benefit. Highly illegal of course, which was why she hadn't exactly gone through the memory card he'd given her. She felt more inclined to burn it than anything else, since she knew it was top-secret after all.

"I intended only to test it, of course when I returned - it was all cleared off."

"What was it supposed to do?" she asked, suddenly aware that the woman who was driving was staring at them through the rear-view mirror, though the woman quickly turned to the road at Molly's questioning glance.

"The opposite of what it did," he said sounding annoyed.

"Ok," she said slowly, not really understanding, until, "So…everyone back there – they were – influenced by what I got on me?"

"Yes."

"I thought I'd been having a good day," she said with a nervous laugh, which he typically did not share.

"Of course now we will have to get you into hiding."

"Hiding?" she said gaping, "But my-,"

"My brother will take care of it, from a certain distance of course, as meeting you would cloud his judgement."

She didn't feel like believing any of it, it sounded like some terrible joke made on her expense. Honestly it had to be, and especially considering, "How come it doesn't affect you?"

He opened his mouth slowly at that, his eyes briefly going to her, before they darted down on his phone. Even the woman driving was staring now, not even taking to pretend she wasn't listening, "I made it, Molly. Do keep up."

"So you're immune, then?" she said blinking furiously.

"Yes."

"Ok," she said falling silent.

If there was one thing he was immune to it was definitely her charms, "Where am I – hiding?" she asked after a few minutes of silence.

She imagined her flat really, or Baker Street, well, she would _like_ to hide in Baker Street, but then again she'd probably be holed up in a really shabby - the car stopped – _a hotel –_the Café Royal to be precise. In terms of a forced holiday with room service and no work – it wasn't the worst of situations, despite the fact that she still didn't quite believe the concept that all men at the moment wanted her. It was hardly like Sherlock to be tight-lipped in regards of scientific studies really, as that was one of the topics that would secure his mouth to loosen. Upon exciting the car that soon drove off, Sherlock shrugged off his coat, and handed it to her, "For the smell," he said absentmindedly, the phone soon pressed at his ear, "Mycroft – have you secured a room?"

She took the coat off his hands, though she didn't entirely know what he meant. The notion that a _love potion_ if that was what Sherlock had managed to concoct felt more amusing than anything else, but she didn't smell, did she? He looked at her with furrowed brows, and she quickly threw on the coat drowning in the fabric, "Yes," he said on the phone, grabbing her by the elbow again, before they both were striding to the entrance.

The man who held open the door for them stared at her, and she felt herself push into Sherlock out of sheer surprise. It couldn't actually be true, could it? It seemed like one of those fantastic stories one read in – Harry Potter for God's sake. Love potions didn't exist besides in the realm of fiction. Couldn't it just be that she looked rather good today, like several had said? Not that it was something several had said after all, it had been agreed upon by every single male in Bart's, and now by the look several of the men at the reception were giving her.

Did it enhance pheromones? She had read up on topics regarding the matter numerous times. Not on the topic of love potions, but on the increase of attractiveness in females during ovulation. This wasn't as much of a theory, since legitimate doctors and the occasional woman's magazine supported it.

But she supposed if it was actually true her attractiveness had increased _tenfold_. After all it wasn't every day she was chased out by men from work - holding hands with Sherlock Holmes.

She tried looking properly out for it now, staying close to Sherlock who was keeping her close in turn, "Sherlock Holmes," he said to the receptionist.

"Room 101," the woman said cheerfully handing over the plastic card, as Sherlock only gave a brief nod in return.

"We'll talk upstairs," he said in a low voice, his eyes darting around in the room, and she mirrored this action. Everyone who was male was looking at her, and she was surprised to find Sherlock's hand tightening around her elbow.

—

When they'd gotten to the room after the harrowing journey in the elevator, where several of the men followed them to their floor, attempting to chat to her, "Hello love, what brings you here?"

She'd almost replied out of sheer politeness, "No," Sherlock said for her, and she kept silent at that.

They got into the room, with him slamming the door after her, and with her taking off his coat, "Obviously we will have to device a cure – my brother is already attempting to replicate what I did, but considering his staff – it might take a while," said Sherlock.

"So I suppose a quick shower won't make it go away?" she said giggling.

"You've already showered today, Molly," he said pointedly.

Of course he noticed, he always noticed those things. A pound here - a scar here – clean hair – dirty hair. One was made eerily conscious in his presence.

She frowned at him. This was after all technically his fault, "How come you couldn't do it at Baker Street – why Bart's?" she asked knowing fully well of the chemistry set he owned, and the expensive microscope too. The man had enough of toys and gadgets, yet he persisted in coming to Bart's (sometimes complaining over the poor out-dated equipment they had).

He looked for a second upset, baffled even by this question, until the steely gaze he usually carried masked his face, "You're hiding something," she said before she could stop herself, "Sorry," she added quickly, hating herself more for apologising.

"Molly," he said with a stern expression, the one used to keep her quiet, but she ignored it.

"What were you actually making, then?"

His brows knitted together, as he strode in the room – his hands in his pockets, "I've already told you."

She settled down on the bed, her hands on the soft sheet, as she followed him with her eyes, "You told me you were looking for the – opposite – oh _– a not_ – love potion?" Another laugh escaped her mouth, "Who could _you_fancy?"

He looked hurt, for a millisecond, his blue eyes turning to her quickly, before turning to the wall behind her.

Oh.

_Oh._

She didn't know what to say, nor did she need to as his phone went off, "I'll take this in the other room," he said softly, walking away.

_It can't be_, she thinks. _He wouldn't – no. _She tries very hard not to fiddle with the sheets of the bed, straining to listen to the muffled conversation he's having on the other side of the door. He's been talking for about a minute already, yet it feels reasonably closer to an hour.

Then she hears him rather bellow out, _"What?"_ He sounds absolutely horrified, which certainly catches her off guard.

She jumps a bit in her position, hastily sorting herself out when he walks back into the room, throwing his camera phone onto the bed giving her a brief look.

"What's going on?" she asked looking up at him carefully, trying to ignore what he'd previously said, and the fact that he's staring. Sherlock in love with her was ridiculous – and trying to get out of it – on the verge of offending. _No, actually offending,_ she thought.

"They've found a cure," he said looking a bit pale.

"Ok…and what is it?" she asked keen to return back to being ignored by all men, and not _just_ him. Despite the fact that he might…oh, she didn't want to think more about it really.

He's avoiding looking at her now, hands in his pockets, clearing his throat slightly, before he then meets her eyes, "Sex."

Molly was used to a lot of things – having lunch after dealing with a corpse that had spent some time in the water, and just in general eating after seeing things others would consider scarring. Sherlock saying _sex _however, that was rather earth shattering in a way, "Sorry?" she said wide-eyed, leaning forward with her hands on her knees.

She was still in her coat from work, perhaps she was still at work, and her mind had just wandered amidst her paperwork. Maybe she wasn't even there, for it felt like an out of body experience, "You heard me," he said with a crease between his brows.

There was always a chance she was wrong, that perhaps there was some residue stuck in her ears, and she had just wanted to hear him say those words, "Did I?" she said, which isn't really a question directed towards him, as it is directed to the room itself that has only two occupants – and a bed.

"Yes," he bites out, looking rather cowed, like she's said something utterly stupid. The seconds are ticking away, he's avoiding to look at her, and she just stares at him.

"Really?" she said out loud, the laugh escaping her mouth, until it's all she can do. Honestly, it's not often she hears that sex is the answer to a problem, especially that one being that every male in her presence wants her. Well, except him – who apparently wants her, but doesn't want her at the same time. There is really no wonder she feels confused, longs for reason amidst all of this, and wishes he hadn't broken her phone. This only makes her laugh more. She's stuck in a hotel room with him, and he tells her that the cure to her dilemma is sex – it sounds like some rubbish porn movie, "Really?" she said in a louder voice this time, bursting into more laughter, "With who?"

"Obviously," he said with a slight raise of his eyebrows, and he looks quite serious. He's obviously hinting towards them having the sex. In some ways it isn't a daydream, more a nightmare, depending on the fact that he looks like he'd rather eat a deerstalker.

Her laughter dies out at that, "But why?" she asked. It was stupid, the whole thing was stupid, and she'd rather go home hide underneath her duvet than anything else.

"The endorphins will…" he takes a breath at that, "…release…_Molly_." He certainly seems aggravated, even flustered by the hint of red in his cheeks. He's blushing. Sherlock is blushing.

She opens her mouth to say something, but decides against it. There's a reason she's in trouble after all – the man fancies her, and _doesn't_ want to fancy her. That sounds like the general description of herself really, and she doesn't know whether to be cross or just accept that everything about him is difficult.

She frowns, "Well, ok, then – I'll go pick someone out, shall I?" she said, skipping off the bed, dusting off her clothes, intending to go towards the door. She's not actually happy, she doesn't actually want to go, but what else is she going to do. Stay there with him? In silence?

No, she can't.

She won't.

His hand is on the door when hers hits the knob, "No," he said, "You can't go out there."

"I'm not in danger," she said trying to jerk the door open, feeling more and more annoyed by his presence, "Honestly, I'll just have it out with someone – right? And this will all be over."

"It has to be me."

She raises a brow at that, "Right…ok…let's have the sex, then, shall we? Come on with the sex." She sounds hysterical, in fact her voice doesn't sound like it belongs to her, high-pitched and crazed. She has all reason to be angry, all reason to be annoyed, and it certainly doesn't help when he grabs her to him, flush against his chest, "What are you doing?" she says rather faintly, staring up at him with her mouth open.

"What I should have been doing months ago," he murmured, his awkwardness gone, though his cheeks are still faintly red, and she's still gaping.

"What's – what's that, then?" she said, unsure for a few seconds if he's quite serious. She's almost unable to shut her mouth, gaping stupidly up at him, and presently feeling the quite palpable _evidence_ in his dark trousers.

She's trying to remain composed. If composed was to remain open-mouthed that is, with her palms on his chest, and his arms tentatively on her waist.

Sherlock's blue-green hues are staring down on her, while the grip he has on her is solid. Not that she feels entirely like moving, or knows if she can. The corners of his mouth turn upwards, and an eyebrow is slowly raised "I think you know," he said in reply.

"I do?"

"Yes."

It's quite telling what he's about to do - what she's been wanted him to do for ages, and it's all seems faintly like some impossible dream. Here he is, unaffected by the _love potion_ (stupid term, she knows, but what else to call it?), with the solution being sex, and he's suggesting…

Sherlock…_Sherlock_…who has a magnificent brain, and who even under any sort of influence would be too clever for his own good, "Oh no," she said almost groaning loudly, well, actually she does groan. She disentangles herself from him, being mindful of his kicked puppy expression, and said with a sad brow, "Give me your phone," with her hand out, standing away from him, trying to regain her strength.

"What?" he said baffled.

"You haven't actually spoken to Mycroft, have you?" she said with her hands on her hips, "You've – you've obviously been influenced by-," she tries to look fine, except she knows what the running did – the sweat – the adrenaline, "This – this isn't _you_."

She's pointing at him, though she drops her hand, and he looks utterly bewildered, "Yes - it is," he finally bites back, looking horrendously offended.

"OK – prove it," she said, "Tell me when you started to fancy me, because you'd know when."

A part of her is loathing herself for not giving into what she wants, another congratulates herself for being so strong, and the third bit; the third part really _really_hopes that he does know. That she is wrong, that the conversation with Mycroft was real, and that – "12:03."

"What?" she said.

"April the second, 2008 – the time was approximately 12:03 – when you walked in - or do you want me to be more specific?" he said, glimpsing at his watch for a second.

Her memory was certainly not that precise, she only recalled it was in spring, "You were wearing underneath your coat - a pink blouse with blue polka dots – slightly see-through – with a pale blue brassiere underneath," he continued, stepping towards her.

He had made a terrible comment that day about her blouse, and she never wore it at work after that.

"You…" he took a breath, "Leaned forward at 12:08."

His palm is on her cheek, he's half-smiling, and she's gaping like an idiot again.

Is it just a trick?

She does not know, she doesn't want to know.

"12:15 – you made me laugh at some terrible joke of yours, and 12:17 I swore not to act on it."

His lips are pressed together, his face thoughtful.

"You've done…a good job there," she said with a small voice, allowing herself a laugh.

The corners of his eyes crinkle upwards, his eyes cast down briefly towards - his watch – "21:23 - I decide to."

She doesn't ask this time, shutting up for once, not trying to fill the silence, and allowing it to happen. Despite reason trying to dictate her.

No, not reason – fear – fear what tomorrow will bring.

Tonight has in store something entirely different, and she feels it in the way his mouth aligns with hers. It's soft at first, brief taps upon her mouth, until it bends over to desperation. It's hungry, coarse, almost angered, when she feels her back on the bed, and she briefly wonders if he's tricked her.

Thoughts flitter away when his mouth, the warmth of his body meets hers on the bed. And she lets herself forget, wills herself to be in the ´now´ to not to conclude with the worst, until all evidence is given. Her clothes are flung away, so are his, forgotten to the floor, partly torn apart. A cloud of lust is hanging around his face, and that's enough to undo her.

She barely knows how he removed the layers of clothing so quickly, so easily, when his mouth is on her breast, or when his hand is between her thighs. His breath is laboured, so is hers, when he pushes into her. Words ease out of her mouth, as the bedframe repeatedly slams into the wall. No words can describe the relieved expression on his face, reappearing by every touch she gives into, and by every which she bestows. With that she knows entirely that if there is one thing that has affected him – it's her.

15:05: "I stipulated it only needed to be done _once_," said the voice of Mycroft Holmes rather bored on the phone, "There is no need to use the resources of our country – so – you can - - - put your trousers on!"

"No," was the reply.


End file.
